Live: One Night Only
by webgeekist
Summary: New York's hottest music lounge is a seamless fusion of the old and the new. Much like its most famous patron, a fixture at her own private table. Much like the nation's hottest band, back in town for one night only. Much like the relationship between that famous patron and the band's bassist...except that relationships are never seamless. (Bering and Wells, Alternate Universe)
1. Chapter 1

Notes: this is based off a Rolling Stone article created for AU Week on tumblr by alderaanian-bear, with a few tweaks made. I highly recommend you check that out before reading this story. I've left the link in my profile.

* * *

**Live: One Night Only**

* * *

The interior of the most popular music lounge in New York City was lush in a way that only an old building with great architecture could have pulled off. Far from the simple, almost southern influences of The Bitter End and the hedonistic modernism of Le Poisson Rouge, this place was a marvelous study in architectural symmetry, and perfectly married details like sprawling wooden staircases with LED lights strips under the lips of the stairs, and an old crystal chandelier hanging in the middle of the great music hall alongside the track lighting that lit the stage. And the drink menu fit the elegant air of the lounge, with only the best bartenders on hand to mix the perfect classic cocktail and a staff mixologist to serve the VIP clientele with drinks made with exquisitely-paired spirits and some scientific ingenuity.

The patrons of the bar came for different reasons. Tourists were directed to the Time Machine because the bookers did a brilliant job of attracting the best talent for rare, unplugged performances. The locals liked that the tourists didn't ruin it, because the bouncers at the door could sniff them out of a crowd, letting just enough of those over-eager newcomers in to grow the legend but not enough to ruin the carefully cultivated ambiance of exclusivity. And still more locals — the more famous locals — loved it because the VIP area was second to none in the city. Typically, celebrities and public figures had an area to themselves that was far away from the stage, designed more for hobnobbing than listening to the musical talent. Instead, the VIP bar at the Time Machine was the one with the best view of the stage, and was kept isolated by careful blocking on the main floor and an intelligent consideration for mob psychology. It was the one place in New York where a celebrity could be seen in public without privacy, safety, common decency being overridden.

But for Helena G. Wells, the club held a completely different allure. Two years ago, in that very room, she had fallen head over heels in love.

Her dear friend William Wolcott had opened the bar some three years before, and had relied on her impeccable taste to help him create the atmosphere he wanted. She had helped him find the location, plan the menu…she had even picked the name. Ever since, she was a common patron, and Wolly (as she called him) had even made sure to permanently reserve a table for two at the railing, the best seat in the house, from which she could look out over the slightly sloped main floor and onto the stage. It was still close enough to the music to hear the delicate sound of a guitar's strings without the aid of an amplifier, but far enough away to spare her from hearing damage and, should she choose, carry on a conversation.

But that was rare. She typically sat alone, and listened to the music with her opinion written on her face. But two years ago, she had caught the end of a brilliant act by a little-known band, and by the end of two songs was enamored with their style and artistry…and she had to admit that they were all beautiful, most especially their bass player.

The club was packed for their performance, and for good reason, and at the end of their session the applause was as raucous as she had ever heard. She joined it in a standing ovation.

And that would have been the end of it.

But the bar was packed, and so was the VIP Lounge, and so a tall young woman with curly brown hair and legs that went on forever walked up to a table that everyone else knew to steer clear of.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but may I borrow your chair?"

Helena lifted her gaze to meet the most glorious, open, expressive pair of green eyes she had ever seen. She recognized the woman — the bass player from that marvelous band — and whatever she had intended to bark back as a response died in the back of her throat.

And whatever the woman — Myka, she discovered — had meant to do with the chair, she ended up taking the seat at the table, instead.

They talked for hours about anything and everything. They discovered a mutual appreciation for literature and a never-ending thirst for knowledge. Myka was smart, funny, and beautiful, and her voice was music to Helena's ears.

She had never really believed in love at first sight and, truthfully, wasn't entirely sure she even believed in love until that night, until the moment those bright eyes eyes locked with her own and the rest of the world was entirely forgotten.

"Miss Lake?"

Helena flinched, drawn out of her memories at the sound of her other name, her _public_ name. "Yes?"

The eager young hostess at her side smiled politely. "May I fetch you another drink?"

The woman looked down at the glass in her hand, empty save for the ball of ice that rolled easily at the bottom. "Yes. Please."

As the young blonde trotted off to take her order to the mixologist behind the bar, Helena ran long, slender fingers through her own thick, black hair. She actually hated the stage name she had chosen for herself, much preferring her given name to Emily Lake, but her father and brother were old-fashioned men with old-fashioned values, and no matter how successful a Broadway actress Helena would become, it would never be an acceptable profession for either of them.

And so she was billed by another name professionally, for their benefit. She was respectful enough of the aristocracy she hailed from to leave it be as she pursued a life entirely divorced from it.

She cast a glance toward the stage as the lights dimmed, as the act came on, and as her friends climbed the stage for the first time in almost a year.

And she swallowed hard as familiar green eyes swept the crowd, seeking a tether, and stopped when they found that tether within her own.

Helena smiled, almost bashfully. The gesture was returned.

A new drink was set before her, and the moment was broken.

The Static Bags might have become her favorite band even if she hadn't become involved with their bassist. They were so very excellent at seamlessly marrying so many divergent styles that simply shouldn't go together, and where their music was powerful in any setting, they simply belonged in the already eclectic but so very seamless venue of the Time Machine. It was their favorite place to play…it was their fans' favorite place to hear them play.

The delicate fusion of the old and the new. Their love affair had been so very much like that.

And then, Helena had broken that delicate balance, and in doing so had nearly broken Myka Bering.

"I get asked about the songs I write a lot."

The British actress watched her former lover carefully as she swapped out her vintage bass for an acoustic and seated herself on a stool at center stage.

"And I never really have answers because they sort of speak for themselves. So…I think I'll just let them keep speaking for me. This one's new, and is called 'Solving Puzzles, Saving the Day.'"

Helena blanched, and instantly felt a chill she knew no amount of well-mixed whiskey was going to dispel.

Solving puzzles, saving the day. That had been their dream for their life together.

Myka's fingers began to pluck out a melody that instantly summoned up all the emotions she had tried to swallow every day since that evening in the park a year ago, all those feelings that screamed that she had screwed up something wonderful, and that she had unforgivably wronged the only person in the entire world that she had ever really loved.

_I still remember that night in September,_  
_That night when you walked away._  
_You said we'd be friends, but I couldn't pretend I_  
_I had strength left to bear when our whirlwind affair met its end._  
_I begged you to stay. _

There was a quality to the younger woman's voice that Helena had never heard, and it sounded a lot like longing tinged with sadness and edged with regret. One of Myka Bering's strengths as a lyricist was in her ability to articulate subtle emotions in her singing. Helena's heart hit her ribcage heavily once, soundly thumping her in the place where it hurt most, before stilling for a moment to emphasize its point.

There was nothing subtle about the raw pain in Myka's voice now, and every ounce of it was her fault.

_I've been waiting for months, waiting for years,_  
_Waiting through all of your rage and your fears._  
_So if I should die before you awake_  
_There's not enough left of my soul for the devil to take._  
_It's not his, anyway._  
_I already gave it away._

_Saying goodbye is its own special hell_  
_To the one you know better than anyone else._  
_Oh, you were my sanctum, your love my release_  
_Your passion, my God, saw me brought to my knees._  
_Solving puzzles, saving the day,_  
_A future so bright when you promised me that you'd stay._  
_I don't know what to say._  
_You were already running away, oh. _

The song continued, and only once more had Helena been able to bring herself to meet Myka's eyes, so full of the emotions she poured into the song, and looking right at her. Helena was overcome, and she turned away again as guilt crept into her heart to mix with the other feelings, creating a cocktail of anguish as exquisite as the drink in her hand, the one she started into as memories crashed over her. The song ended, the set continued to weave its magic into the club, into Helena's happiest place, and for the first time she wasn't able to enjoy it. She was lost in the past, and in all the wrongs she would never be able to adequately right.

Some time later, Helena's thoughts were once again interrupted by the presence of someone at her side.

"I don't need another drink," she responded reflexively, angrily, hoping it would be enough to send the eager young hostess away again. Instead, the presence remained.

Helena whirled quickly a common rage rising within her as she moved to stand, intent on sending the young blonde away in tears if she had to, but she stopped short when her eyes landed on a more familiar form.

"I was just going to ask if I could borrow your chair."

At once, the rage she felt dissipated, leaving her body as quickly as the air in her lungs could be sucked out, and a name escaped on that breath like a whispered prayer.

"Myka."

The actress sat heavily back into her seat, and at length, the brunette quirked her lips in a slightly amused grin, and took her silence for an invitation to sit.

For a long moment, Helena wasn't sure what to say. It had been a while since they'd seen each other up close like this — they'd talked a little, begun to repair their friendship, but hadn't been in the same city since that day.

And the grief came rushing back.

She swallowed reflexively against a suddenly dry throat before remembering that she held a drink in her left hand. She took a sip, let the melted ice soothe the itch, and then closed her eyes against the burn that was still present in the watered-down drink.

"I am so sorry, Myka. I had no idea. I had no idea what I did to you."

The amused grin disappeared from the singer's face. "How could you not, Helena? How could you think that what you did wouldn't destroy me?"

And there was the answer: she hadn't thought.

They were, the pair of them, entirely alike and yet entirely different. They had helped each other heal, both having loved ones that had been victims of violence. And they were happy together, and good together.

But then, the man that had been accused of her daughter's murder was let free on a technicality, and Helena's mighty rage had come roaring back.

"I…I wasn't in my right mind, Myka. I didn't know what to do."

"You could have _talked to me_, Helena. Like you'd promised you would. We were both in pain, and we were both so much better together than we ever were apart. I tried to talk to you after the trial, and you shut me out. I kept trying and you pushed me away. And finally, you just left."

The other woman sighed. "I was so very wrong. My darling Myka, I would do anything to change the past and go back to that place before the trial."

They knew each other better than anyone else, and so Helena knew exactly which of her many atrocities had most affected the tall woman seated across from her.

"I promised you I would never leave you like that. I promised you that we would always be honest with each other, that we would always discuss our feelings. And the way I…the way I abandoned you. I was a coward, Myka. A coward and a fool."

"And you were in pain."

Hesitantly, the actress reached across the table and placed her hand over the bassist's slightly longer one.

"I shouldn't have let it overcome me like that. I wanted your love, Myka. I wanted your help. But the hate had grown inside of me like a cancer, and I was so afraid of what I would do. To you…to myself. I wanted to spare you that, and…I was so afraid that you wouldn't like what you saw beneath the surface. I was so frightened of my darkness, and of your reaction to it…"

The hand in hers moved, and for a moment Helena was afraid she had crossed a tender line in her apologies, but instead of pulling away, it flipped and gripped her own fiercely.

"I've seen your darkness. You try to hide it, but it affects everything you do, from burying yourself in work to writing lyrics and plays with only a glass of whiskey to keep you company to the way you smile at a child and treat them with such kindness, and even the charities that you donate your time and money to as both Emily Lake and Helena Wells. I saw my future, wrapped up in that part of you that loved your daughter so fiercely that it infiltrated your every action and every emotion…from the good to the bad."

"Not every emotion," Helena corrected. "And not every aspect of my life. You became my life, Myka. I do many things in Christina's memory still, but not all of them. I no longer see her in every child I meet. I no longer think exclusively of her when I give of myself. I think of you, another beloved person I've lost. I see the daughter or son we will never have in the faces of the children I meet. I think of the things you care about when I give to charity. Christina was all I had for so very long…and then, I had your love. And now, I carry that memory with me, in penance, but also in acknowledgement of someone I loved more than life itself."

Helena's gaze had watered over, and she could see through the tears that the object of her affection had also become so emotional. Cursing herself for causing her more pain, she moved to take her hand back.

But Myka held fast, and refused to let it go.

"You had my love, Helena." she whispered at length. "You had my heart, my mind, my body, my soul…my everything." Green eyes locked on her own once more, and the next words were spoken with a certainty that could never be denied.

"_You still do_."

The patrons of the bar came for different reasons. Some came for music, some came for fun. Others — like the famous Emily Lake — notoriously came to drown some unknown sorrow at the bottom of a very expensive drink.

But what she really came to the Time Machine for was hope. She came to mull over her past and imagine a better future.

She thought she had found it once, in the arms of a beautiful woman with talented fingers, an angel's voice, and a soul to match the rest, and then she'd let it slip through her fingers.

But that night, she found it again in the watery green gaze of a woman she thought she'd lost. She saw a future she wanted more than anything, and for perhaps the first time, she believed that the glorious life she had imagined could actually come true.

"Let's get out of here," Myka suggested.

Hands still joined, fingers laced together, they left Helena's table behind.


	2. Chapter 2

I couldn't put this universe down, it seems.

Updating with the rest of the snippets I've written. They are not written linearly.

* * *

**Work in Progress**

* * *

Emily Lake lived in Manhattan.

Her home was the kind of property that the New York elite would murder to acquire, in an old and regal building with waitlists several decades long. Hers was the penthouse – a mansion on a tall urban rooftop with amazing views and a sweeping deck that overlooked the Park. The interior was much like its owner, a seamless fusion of old-world money and modern technology.

It had been in her family for over a century, but the public didn't know that.

Sir Joseph Wells had given it up as a concession to his daughter's comfort, along with a generous trust. It was, his child would come to realize later, the only way he could demonstrate his acceptance of her decision to leave England and become something entirely outside of the aristocracy she had been born into.

For Lady Helena Wells, her home was a canvas, and on it she would create something entirely different of herself without leaving behind the history and culture she loved about her old life. It was within those walls that Emily Lake – spirited actress, renowned socialite, and opinionated modern woman — was created.

She tinkered with the personality, ever apt to change and perfect her creations, and slowly let "Emily" infuse so much of her life, but the 47th Floor was her sanctuary, the place she could return to being _just_ Helena. When Christina was alive, it was _their_ refuge, and they would play endless games and explore fantastical worlds and learn new things. It was where her brother would stay when he visited America, and it was somewhat of a refuge for him, as well. Charles may have elected to follow their father's example and continue the noble Wells name , but he enjoyed engaging in the fantasies his niece spun, and they would all spend hours lost in a land of sleeping time travelers and mad geneticists.

Or, so Myka Bering had been told.

Not long after they first met, Helena had somewhat shyly brought her to this sanctuary, and in giving her the grand tour, the actress wistfully regaled her guest with the tales of mighty dragons guarding treasure troves of antique porcelain tea sets and crystal decanters. When the tour had nearly finished, when they stood before a closed set of heavy mahogany doors, Helena bowed her head and smiled sadly.

"This was my daughter's favorite room," she said. "The adventures we had in here…"

Myka had gotten the feeling that, in opening the heavy doors, Helena Wells was exposing a part of her heart that few people ever got to see, but the moment past when she set eyes upon the wonder beyond. Growing up in a bookstore made her accustomed to the idea of living in a library, but the vast room was lined with rich wood shelves on two sides, and windows on the other two. The bookcases reached from floor to high ceiling, and halfway up, there was a walking deck reachable by a staircase at the corner. Near the windows stood an elegant wooden writing desk, strewn with papers, and a grand piano not far from it. The pair of furniture pieces stood watch over an assortment of musical instruments, and in front of a workbench littered with mechanical parts.

The room was the embodiment of Helena's brilliant mind. It was where she had hidden from the world and recovered after her daughter's tragic death. It was where she spent much of her free time even while they dated, working on something or another, her favorite porcelain teaset beside her hand as she scribbled lyrics into a leather-bound notebook.

After the failed trial of Christina's killer, it was where she retreated once more.

Into her study.

Into her mind.

Myka pushed the heavy doors aside as she slipped into the room for the first time since their break-up over a year ago, shivering as the memories surfaced. She cast them aside quickly – that was another time, and they were different people.

Some things, it seemed, didn't change.

The bassist found her love at the desk, writing in her journal the way she used to, and if there was one sign that things had changed with Helena it was the way her hand fluidly moved across the page, the way her brow was knit together in concentration, and the way the teapot sat resolutely at the side of the desk. Her short silk robe part seductively across the creamy flesh of her chest. Myka blushed as newer memories from earlier that evening flooded her mind, and drew her own silk robe together a bit more.

Helena was apt to tinker. She was always happiest tweaking things to make them better. Her not-inconsiderable mechanical aptitude was a secondary skill to her ability to manipulate words, however, and it was by far that aspect of her considerable talent that Myka Bering was most in awe of.

Words flowed from her as Earl Grey flowed from the white porcelain at her hand – smooth and delectable and nearly endless in volume. Yet the tinkerer in her made certain that before a passage was put aside, before lyrics were ever married with a melody, they were a perfect reflection of every nuance of her intent.

"What are you writing?" Myka asked, finally breaking the silence.

"Just a moment, Darling, I'm almost done."

The tall woman smiled and took leisurely strides across the room, running her eyes across familiar objects, and paused on a new one – in the corner, somewhat hidden from view, was a solemn-looking bass guitar she could not recall having seen among the collection of musical instruments in the past. She was drawn to it and it's warm, worn wine color, and gasped when she realized what it was.

"Ah. That is yours."

She whipped her head around as Helena neared her, eyes wide. "Helena, that's a vintage 1961 Rickenbacker 4001. You can't find those anymore."

"I'm well aware."

The other woman's eyes sparkled as she spoke, as if she had been looking forward to this moment for a very long time. And perhaps she had – they had only come together again a few nights before. She wouldn't have had time to find the classic instrument unless…

"Helena…when did you buy this?"

The sparkle faded a bit, and Helena's lips stretched into a small smile. "Remember when I told you that my every action, nearly since the day I left you, bore you in mind?" Myka nodded, and Helena's long hand gestured to the guitar.

"I came across it some six months ago, poorly treated and in need of so many repairs. And I purchased it and tended to it, and repaired it to its original standard and more. I suppose….I had hoped…"

It was so very rare for Helena to fail to find words, but Myka didn't need to hear them. The craftsmanship of the repairs had been flawless, meticulous, and utterly perfect. It wasn't hard to tell that they were made with great care.

"It reminded you of me, and you repaired it like you wished you could repair our relationship."

Helena was silent. Myka still knew her better than anyone else.

She let her fingers brush across the outline of the actress' jaw, leaving them to linger just beneath the chin, then tilted it upward so their lips could gently meet.

When they pulled apart, Helena's smile was more confident.

"It worked, then?" she asked.

The bassist laughed lightly and pulled the smaller woman in, running her hands across the small of her back and leaning into her neck. She sighed as arms circled around her back and ran up to her shoulders to clutch her close.

The Englishwoman had her study to hide in, but Myka's refuge was Helena's arms.

"It's a work in progress," she whispered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Strong Enough**

* * *

She tilted the crystal highball back and forth, swirling the smooth amber liquid within and watching as it clung briefly to the glass like fine wine. Her mood was as chaotic as the liquid as it swirled within its container, creating a funnel, dragging everything down. With a final twirl, the glass was placed upon a rich wooden table, and as the contents churned on, she simply continued to watch.

Some part of Helena Wells missed the delicate clink of ice inside her whiskey glass. It reminded her of wind chimes and dinner parties and much, much happier times. Crystal and frozen water created a sound that was so very joyous, not unlike the sound of a child's laughter.

She had taken to drinking her whiskey neat for that very reason — the memories were too painful.

Helena had arrived a few minutes before, during a break in a live set. The bartender had promptly fashioned her favorite drink — her only drink these days — and the welcome and familiar burn of scotch as it fell down her throat was her next priority.

Even through her need to drown her pain in whiskey, however, she could feel that the Time Machine was buzzing that evening. The chatter was animated, the patrons were electric, and the atmosphere was something…

Hopeful, maybe. It was anticipation that had everyone enraptured.

She took a sip of her 21-year-old Glenlivet just as the lights dimmed and the band walked onstage to a wild cheer.

Helena enjoyed music — it helped, with spirits, to distract her from her own pain. If it was said that music soothed the savage beast, then she certainly could not deny that her evenings at the popular music lounge might be the only joy left in her life. It didn't take long for her to warm to the better bands, and during the rare performance by the best bands, she could almost lose herself in the flavors of the melody and allow her mind to be transported to faraway places and fantastic worlds the likes of which authors could scarcely write about. It didn't take long for her to learn that this band possessed that rare talent.

Her thoughts were unusually dark, however, and not even the talents of their young lead singer were enough to pull her from the depths.

She continued listening, and she continued drinking. The girl was no more than nineteen, brilliant on her obviously customized Melody Maker and incredibly gifted at putting her heart into the lyrics. The drummer kept a near-perfect beat, and interjected his own brand of genius into his infrequent flourishes. The bassist managed to keep a tonal depth that shouldn't be possible with just four strings. Combined, the trio sounded every bit as good as a band with two more members and twenty years of tour time.

Despite herself, Helena found herself drawn in by their eclectic style, but it wasn't until the tall, slender bassist took center stage, an acoustic guitar in hand, that her mind began to engage with her environment.

An awed hush descended over the crowd. Helena lifter her glass once more as the woman began to strum the instrument masterfully. The song belonged to Sheryl Crow, but that vision of a woman, chocolate curls tumbling over her shoulders and stage lights shining in her wide green eyes, owned the melody for the evening.

At the end of the song, the crowd erupted into wild applause, and for the first time in recollection Helena found herself tempted to join the mob in its appreciation. Her glass, which had been suspended mid-air for the entirety of the solo performance, was placed on the table as she clapped politely along with everyone else.

There it stayed for the rest of the set, abandoned as Helena's mind cleared of its black fog long enough to watch the performers and truly enjoy music once more. Yet what she would reflect upon later would not be the drum solos and the bright, clear sound of a custom guitar so much as the shy hint of a smile as that lovely brunette walked back to her bass and began playing. What Helena would remember most about that evening was the feeling stirred within her every time that bright green gaze paused in its strafe across the audience to linger in her direction.

She would remember how, every time their eyes locked that evening, it was hope that stared back at her.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sunlit Spaces**

* * *

Light.

It crept slowly above the horizon, far beyond the city and out over the water, gently casting itself across an urban landscape. Buildings, constructed over cold foundations and made of grey stone that towered like ominous shadows at night, were swathed by the warm oranges and dull pinks of a renewed day.

In a penthouse bedroom atop one such tall building, there was a room made for the light. The hand-carved molding along the edges of the plaster ceiling and walls was painted white, and every fabric surface was just as pale. Draped over a large, solid four-post bed was a thick gossamer canopy, opaque enough to conceal an occupant but translucent enough to be a waiting canvas for the colors of the dawn.

Helena Wells slept very little, and was nearly always awake when the sun peaked above its watery haven, but it had been so long since she could last appreciate the way the light shimmered across the surfaces of her room.

The large bay windows were only lightly frosted until waist level, but it was the subtle filter that made all the difference. As the glowing ball arced across its heavenly path, its rays danced delightfully through the curtains of her canopy, across the thick, light comforter and the soft sheets. She smiled as she ran her hand along a crested edge of cotton, along the familiar lines of another's curves beneath them, until skin met warm skin.

There, across the planes of Myka Bering's body, the light did far more than dance. It loved the woman as a camera should a supermodel, giving her smooth skin a shimmer that no mere mortal should ever possess. The light loved Myka as Helena did — reverently.

The woman stirred beneath her fingertips, chestnut curls spilling over her shoulder and falling down her back to meet the mattress.

The morning, Helena knew, was her favorite part of the day. The moments just after dawn, while her love was still asleep and she could bask in the unfettered glow of her unrivaled beauty, were as close to heaven as she thought she could ever get.

The mattress dipped as she leaned forward and pressed soft lips to satin skin once, twice, and again. The exquisite creature beside her moaned softly in her sleep and leaned into the contact.

"Helena…"

She smiled against Myka's shoulder and pressed one more kiss against it before wrapping her arms around that warm canvas of light, drawing it against her, feeling relief diffuse within her soul and settle as happiness. In her embrace, the other woman shifted and stirred, waking at last and casting off sleep by blinking it away.

Once.

Twice.

Then, Myka's eyes opened and the light flooded them, turning the always warm mossy color into something magical. They gave their own light, a glittering and precious flame that contained all of Myka's love and affection.

It shined brightly, always. And only for Helena.

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you, too," Myka replied.

The bedroom was a canvas for light. For Helena, Myka's love was the brightest light of all.


	5. Chapter 5

**Darkness and Light**

* * *

Over many years living many lives, Helena Wells had learned to embrace the quiet solitude of night.

In the harsh sunshine of the Manhattan summer, new to the city and filled with the joy and terror of finally being free to do as she wished, she found that people stared at her. Perhaps it was her beauty – regal and dignified yet entirely unique, a series of qualities that were useful as an actress. Perhaps it was her indomitable personality, as if wit and intelligence could sparkle in the sunlight like diamonds. Whatever it was that drew the people of New York City to her, she had learned long before her arrival to keep her true self hidden from everyone, and to wear a series of masks in public for her own protection. She named that persona "Emily Lake."

At night, however, the people drew into themselves, or their friends, or their lovers. The sun was set, and nothing in the city shimmered the way it could during the day. The night was when pretense could be dropped and artificial things were revealed with bright colors and sharp contrast. Nighttime in the city was when truths were revealed.

In the time after Christina's death, before Helena Wells met Myka Bering, night was the only time that Helena could feel anything real. She hid her grief during the day, for no one knew Emily Lake ever had a child. Left alone in her solemn penthouse, tucked away with the memories and regrets, the pain had washed over her, receded, and then crashed into her anew like a churning tide.

At night, she could allow herself to be angry, and guilty, and so very, very lonely. She could feel all those things deeply, and they all made her feel alive.

Myka had changed the nature of her nights without effort, and slipped into her life as if she was meant to be there all along. Now, with the benefit of time and experience, Helena believed there was a very simple explanation for that.

Nothing in Helena's life had ever been as simple as the love she shared with Myka Bering. Their love was her truth.

When the night ceased to be her refuge, it was the only thing she had left to cling to.

—-

_Darling,_

_How I long to hold you and kiss you and make you mine. One touch, and you would see – it's meant to be._

_Look at that, I've made a rhyme. Perhaps I was meant to be a writer of poetry, or a singer._

_I cannot help but believe it was fate that brought me to see you this evening. You and I have been connected for so long. To find you here, after such a long time apart, is surely a sign from God that I was meant to have you as my wife._

_Come see me tomorrow night. I'm staying at the Carlyle. I've left a key for you with the concierge._

_With great affection,_

_Lord Crowley_

—-

For all her affection for words, none could describe the utter chaos of that night.

The patrons of the club were scattering like small animals from a fire, an apt description of the scene as the harsh lights of sirens cut through the evening fog with angry beams of color. The façade of the building was illuminated so brightly that only a true blaze could have made for a more frightening canvas.

Helena was pulled aside, away, and resisted so powerfully that her arms were twisted to angles they should never meet without giving way, but the pain that lanced through her shoulder and down her spine was nothing compared to the sheer panic coursing through her veins in that moment.

In the flickering light of an emergency stage, the slick blood on her hands seemed to blend into her skin.

Fear alone kept her grip on the gurney as it was pushed through the crowd toward the ambulance. Her mind was filled with it, locked on it and the all-too familiar sensation of her world collapsing in upon itself. This was how she felt in nightmares, less and less frequent with Myka in her life.

"Miss…Miss Lake? You need to let go. We need to put her in the ambulance."

"I need to go with her," she managed to say, perhaps not loud enough to be heard. "I need to stay with her."

Her eyes never left the mass of dark curly hair splayed across the bright medical blue of the gurney's padding, and the pale, blood-streaked face that looked still as death.

"All right," the voice relented.

Shrill, mechanical noises filled Helena's ears as she was loaded with Myka into the ambulance, and rushed away from the hellish scene.

—-

_Darling Helena,_

_I was quite discouraged when you did not visit the other week. I thought at first, perhaps, you were simply busy or out of the city. I discovered in your absence that you are the subject of some rather salacious rumours unbecoming of your station._

_You have lived the life of an exiled vagabond in this heathen country long enough. I'll be in the city again for a week. Come to me, Love – same arrangements as my last._

_Yours,_

_Lord Crowley_

—-

She left London out of respect for her family and disdain for the system it served. She arrived at John F. Kennedy International Airport out a need for a fresh start in a new world.

Never had she imagined that her former life would create such utter devastation.

For a decade and a half, she had been a willing American exile, cultivating a name removed from her heritage on the lights of a Broadway stage. She avoided Hollywood, despite its many invitations – utterly aware of her strengths and preferences, Helena was happy in a city where artificial things could be distinguished from those that were natural.

London was a place much like Los Angeles, except far more skilled at hiding its falsehoods after a millennia of war and royal politics. The unnatural things were far more subtle, folded deeply within words and gestures and social politeness.

Lord Richard Crowley was an unnatural thing she left behind in London gratefully, one as easily picked out as a Hollywood starlet's plastic surgery. The man had been very blunt and borderline obsessive in his business ventures, as he had been in her pursuit of Helena. Her father had approved, of course – all the more reason to escape while she could.

He'd been to a play some months ago, and it happened to be the one she was starring in. Helena greeted him politely, briefly, and that was all – the Static Bags were playing at The Time Machine that evening, and she refused to be late for their performance.

She did not expect to hear from him again.

She wished she never knew him at all.

—-

_Helena,_

_I have been informed by my sources that those "salacious rumours" I referenced before are, indeed, quite true – I must I never expected such things from you. I see your American lifestyle has had an ill effect on your manners and upbringing. Really, what has become of you?_

_It is not too late to return home to England a respectable woman, a Lady, bound to me as your father always intended. I've held such affection for you for so long. Perhaps you have been away from London for too long to remember how happy you were there._

_I shall find you this time, and you shall see reason._

_Yours,_

_Lord Crowley_

—-

There were doors through which she was not allowed to pass.

Beyond lay her life, filled with an immeasurable strength of spirit but fragile as the human body that housed it. Beyond the doors were machines and mechanisms designed to save that body, struggling for its every heartbeat, living by will alone.

Through those doors lay her life, but also her potential destruction.

Pete, Claudia, Steve, and Artie had arrived shortly after the ambulance pulled into the emergency bay and Myka was ushered into an emergency suite. Time passed without notice – she knew they were there, knew they were speaking to her, but had no capacity left to understand.

Left outside those doors, she could only watch through glass as doctors worked to keep Myka alive. Her blood was everywhere.

Myka's blood was on her hands.

_Christina's _blood had been on her hands.

She began to tremble as the line on the heart monitor attached to her beloved flattened, and as one of the doctors placed two long, flat panels inside her chest and called out once. Twice. _Again, dammit, charge it again._

With each new call, with each new pause, her heart stilled in her own chest until the surgeons began to move once more. She found herself hoping, praying, that every beat her heart refused to take was a beat Myka's heart would.

—-

_The band had finished playing their set, and were now active and welcome patrons of The Time Machine's VIP area. Pete was at the bar, elbow on the mahogany lip and a boyish grin on his face, chatting up the lovely bartender as she kept his water glass filled and worked her magic for everyone else. Claudia and Steve were at a table not too far away, having found and befriended some younger mixologists of a different sort. Even from a distance, Helena could hear the young girl's excitement as they discussed the technological innovations of modern music. Artie was in a secluded corner booth, hidden from the world, with a very regal and distinguished blonde woman he was known to wear on his arm from time to time._

_Helena was at her usual table, accompanied by the one person who had ever been asked to join her. They discussed the set, and some recent literature, and then rehashed an old conversation about the merits and wonders of the science fiction genre before discussing their upcoming vacation._

_They had been excited. Happy._

_"Helena."_

_They had been interrupted._

_"Richard. What are you doing here?"_

_Myka stood, surprised perhaps by the presence of a stranger that seemed to know her girlfriend's true identity, and began to move her hand in greeting._

_"It's time for you to end this ridiculous charade and come home with me, Helena."_

_The musician's hand stopped and slowly fell back to her side as Helena's powerful ire grew hot._

_"Richard, I honestly have no idea what it is you think I owe you, but this improper and impolite. I was in the middle of a conversation before you inserted yourself into it."_

_The man's typically put-together dress was unusually disheveled. His hair stuck out awkwardly in places, and his clipped accent slurred together a little. He was drunk._

_He was never so stupid, she thought, as he was when he was drunk._

_"You and I are meant to be, Helena. You know this. Your father approves."_

_"I came to America to relinquish myself of my father's expectations. That included you, and I would ask you to respect my wishes."_

_The man's eyes were always wild sparks of madness encased in blue containers – perhaps the one attractive quality he held — but upon the polite but firm request those sparks grew to a blaze. She was given just a moment's warning before his fury was unleashed._

_He grabbed at Myka, taking the arm she had declined to offer him moments before._

_"Your wishes are irrelevant! You are a disgrace to your father's name! All this cavorting around like an American trollop, complete with your very own harlot at your side."_

_Myka struggled and Helena reached for the man, attempting to pry his bruising grip from her pale arm._

_"Release her, Richard! My god, man, show some restraint!"_

_"You were meant to be my wife, Helena!"_

_"I was never betrothed to you! We have never been under the obligation of the antiquated Victorian notion of arranged marriage! My father may have liked you, but my hand was never his to offer, and he never did!"_

_ "You were meant to love me, and you disappeared! Your father was worried!"_

_"My father let me leave with his blessing! "_

_"You have been corrupted by these Americans and their –"_

_He was interrupted when Helena finally managed to pry enough of Myka's hand free for her to elbow him in the stomach, just as Pete crashed into the man fist-first and Steve tackled him from behind. He flipped backward onto Emily Lake's reserved table, sending their unfinished drinks and their crystal containers across the floor. Myka staggered to Helena's side as Pete began to recover and Crowley began to roll over._

_The attention of the entire lounge was now on the best seat in the house, the fabled place where a famous actress sat alone night after night for years until The Static Bags played the house for the first time. The crowd watched as the strange man with the slurred British accent rose from the splinters of that table holding a gun._

_Pete ceased his forward momentum, raising his hand slightly as he backed away._

_"Hey man, there's no need for this kind of violence."_

_Crowley's eyes were wide and mad as he jerked the gun first to Pete, then to Steve, keeping the two physical threats as far from him as he could. Finally, he let his gaze and gun level at Helena._

_"You are mine," he snarled._

_She wanted nothing more than to strangle the man, but she tried reason, instead. "No, Richard," she said softly, "I'm not. I never was. Please…please end this before someone truly gets hurt."_

_For a long moment, she thought her plea had connected with some small, sane spot somewhere in his brain. His face bore an expression that she read as revelation, and he looked as if he had been struck by the horror of his actions._

_Whatever it was, it passed quickly._

_"No. No. If I cannot have you, no one will."_

_In the soft light of the lounge, the revolver glinted for just a split second as he shifted his aim._

_The gunshot shattered the only silence The Time Machine had ever witnessed._

—-

The blonde woman was a doctor.

Artie spoke to her in the corner of the waiting room they had been escorted to after Myka was taken to surgery. Helena watched the doors through which doctors passed for some sign of the one that had taken Myka away. Time slipped around her without notice and without end.

Her hands had been wiped clean – by whom, she did not know – but she was still aware of the presence of all the other band members. She was aware of their fear and, at least in some part of her heart, she felt guilty over her inability to offer them comfort.

The rest of her heart felt guilty over putting them through it in the first place.

The doctor – Calder, she learned – disappeared beyond the doors after some time, and Artie watched them as if she would never come back.

Helena feared the moment she did.

The waiting room felt sterile, and if it were possible to feel a color, white was appropriate. There were few places in nature where pure white could be found – fresh-cut roses from her terrace garden, untouched snow in the French Alps, memories she had managed to share with Myka and Christina both — and in those precious moments the color never managed to feel as empty and bereft as that room. The paint was too bright, the light was too white, and the walls glowed in a way that hurt her eyes and scorched her soul.

The doctor returned, her face only a shade pinker than the color scheme, and spoke to Artie first. His eyes widened and he cast a glance over his shoulder toward her with tear-filled eyes.

Helena felt her world begin to crumble beneath her as the solemn woman walked to her.

"Miss Wells."

Bravely, she stood, her legs aching and protesting as they stretched from the position they had spent hours bent in.

"Miss Wells, Artie tells me you are the one Myka would want…that you are the one she has given power of attorney to."

It took several long heartbeats for the words to sink in, and for the implication to form into a certainty that physically washed over her and nearly dropped her to her knees. She hadn't known, and they'd barely begun to discuss what the future would look like with the two of them. There was so much they had yet to discuss.

Myka had apparently already made some of those decisions.

As the kind doctor escorted her forward, she gripped the offered hand a little too tightly for her own support.

Through the doors, beyond the barrier…was the end of her world.

—-

_"Myka!"_

_Helena was dimply aware of the fighting behind her as the woman at her side collapsed to the ground. She reached out to catch her, to cradle her, to stop her descent though she had failed to stop the bullet._

_"Helena?"_

_The musician's voice, so sultry and silken and filled with raw emotion on any of the stages she performed upon, was broken and made jagged by pain. Her bright green eyes were filled with tears, but it was the confusion and pain that Helena saw, no doubt reflected in her own._

_Though terror held her firmly in its cold grasp, the actress's instinct was to care and comfort. Her first concern was Myka, and survival, and hope._

_"Shh, darling." A pale, slender hand closed over the bloom of red over Myka's heart, desperate to put back what had already been spilled. "You'll be all right. Help will be here shortly. Everything will be just fine."_

_Myka's pink lips turned crimson as her blood found other avenues of escape, fleeing from the trauma ad the patrons scurried from the scene. They trembled – against what, Helena did not wish to imagine._

_"I…love…"_

_Myka's eyes slipped closed. Helena's heart stopped._

—-

The stale smell of sickness and death clung to her as she followed the doctor to her fate. Her mind was permanently stained with it, and tricked her senses into reliving the painful moment she was brought to view her daughter's body so many years ago. There had been nothing left to do, then. There was simply the signature that needed to be given that allowed her release to the funeral parlor.

Was that what she was meant to give to the hospital? Was that what they required of her?

The doctor's gentle touch grounded her to the reality of harsh fluorescent lights and brightly-colored scrubs, and how she wanted to escape. How she wanted to be anywhere else in that moment.

She wanted to be on the way to Bora Bora with Myka by her side, packed for a week-long excursion by themselves. She wanted to be on that private beach that she had reserved for the pair of them, lounging on a chaise overlooking their private beach at sunset, sipping expensive wine. She wouldn't be watching the darkening sky – no, she would be watching her companion as the light changed and painted her tanned skin colors that can't be found in the skyline of New York City, as nature bathed her beauty in the only grace that could improve upon her perfection and then as her eyes lit up in surprise, sparkling as brightly as the diamond ring Helena would present to her…

They were meant to be on a plane at 7am the morning after the set at The Time Machine. That time had come and gone.

_Their_ time, it seemed, had as well.

The doctor stopped in front of a closed door at the end of the hallway – another barrier, the _final_barrier – and turned to face her.

"Helena…listen, it's not pretty. What you'll see in there is…" the doctor trailed off, seeming to think the better of her words. "On second thought," she began again, "you've probably…you've probably seen worse. But it will still be a shock. I want you to be prepared."

Through her mind flashed an image of Myka's face, alight with a brilliant smile that outshone even the sun.

"I understand," Helena whispered.

The door opened, and for the first time in hours she could see sunlight. It flooded the room, harsh but warm. On the wall to the left, tucked behind a wall, was Myka, laid out on a bed and hooked up to a dozen machines.

All of them were on. All of them were active.

Myka was alive.

She nearly dropped to her knees as she turned just slightly to face the doctor. "I…I don't understand," she stammered, struggling to push words out through a dry throat with breathless lungs.

"Only one person may stay with her until her condition is downgraded. I spoke with Artie, and he was absolutely adamant that person be you."

"To stay…" she whispered numbly.

"Yes. To watch her. To be here for her when she wakes up."

To be there for her…oh, that such a thing were still even possible was nearly overwhelming. Without direction, her feet guided her to the chair by Myka's bedside and placed her in it. Without thought, her fingers reached out to cradle Myka's cool hand in her palms.

"I'm going to go see to everyone else. If you need anything, just hit the call button."

"Thank you," she replied, but her eyes never left Myka's face, covered though it was in tubing.

The doctor was gone a moment later, leaving the pair of women alone in the room. Helena watched the way the morning sunlight danced across Myka's pale skin, sat in awe of her every breath as if she had just been given to her for the first time.

In a way, perhaps that was true.

"Thank you," she whispered again to any being listening.

—-

_The bright light of a full moon illuminated the city skyline as it hovered overhead. She smiled as she cast her eyes about her balcony garden and watched how the flowers seemed to glow in the moonlight. Far below, the city was uncharacteristically active, and there were so many potential scientific reasons for it, but the terrace was a refuge. The terrace was solitude and quiet._

_Helena thoughtlessly picked a white rose from the container by the door._

_"Romantic."_

_The low, sultry voice made Helena smile. She twirled the rose in her fingers as she continued her journey to a pair of chaise lounges in the middle of the garden. The comfort of her seat was not her destination, nor was the enjoyment of her moonlit garden her goal._

_Her destination was Myka. Her goal was to make that marvelous woman happy._

_She had always found that the night stripped away the lies of the city and left them bare. She had believed that nothing natural could shine at night._

_Helena Wells had been wrong._

_The moon cast just enough of a glow to expose an inner beauty in the woman at her side that could not be seen in the sunlight. Her brilliant smile held its own luster, and sparkled brighter than even the diamond ring around the rose's stem. When Myka pulled her into a passionate kiss – a hope, a promise, a commitment – she thought she knew the answer. Such warmth must hold its own inner light._

_Perhaps it was not night that would uncover the truths of the city. _

_Perhaps it had always been their love._


End file.
